El Burro Volador

I recently finished A Clockwork Orangea meditation upon the relationship between the individual and society, and decided to lighten things up by reading a thriller by Frederick Forsyth.  Of the great thriller writers I have read, I think Forsyth may be the best.  Clancy is certainly the most accessible, but probably the least skilled stylist.  Ludlum is more proficient than Clancy, but not as good as he thinks he is when he launches into certain “writerly” passages – though his plots are perhaps the twistiest.  Le Carre is perhaps the best pure writer of them all, but his subtle, understated work can sometimes be short on action.  Forsyth seems to combine the lucidity of Clancy with more sophisticated plots and characterization, and indulges in more action than the subdued Le Carre.

Anyhow, I started digging into The Fourth Protocol which begins with a jewel heist and quickly spins into international intrigue (it’s cold war vintage, too, when all the best spying was done).  About 75 pages into it I got this nagging feeling of familiarity with the unfolding plot.  By 100 pages in I was sure – I had read the book several years ago!  ‘Bekah was unimpressed by this – she reads 100 books a year, and every couple years she rereads good ones, their plots having been blurred over by the hundreds of intervening books.  I read about a third that much, however, and usually retain plots excellently.  As soon as I remembered that I’d read this, I recalled just how it played out, right down to the memorable ending.

So I’ve moved on to Howard Cosell’s autobiography I Never Played the Game.   Hopefully, I won’t turn out to have read this one.  Heh.  I Never Read this Book.